


She Dreams Awake

by FrodaB



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-24
Updated: 2010-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrodaB/pseuds/FrodaB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If pressed, she might admit to feeling like she's waiting for something. Holding her breath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Dreams Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ей снится наяву](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1389889) by [mzu_2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mzu_2/pseuds/mzu_2)



"What'll you do now?" she asks, grabbing a duffel bag off the carousel as he stands there, turning a loaded die over in his fingers.

"I'm considering my options."

"Are any of them legal?"

Arthur's lips twitch slightly, but he doesn't respond. That's answer enough.

Eames doesn't bother to say good-bye, just grins and winks and disappears into a cab. Somehow, Ariadne isn't surprised.

"He'll be in Vegas by this time tomorrow," Arthur quips dryly, voicing her thought aloud. Then he shakes her hand, and before she gives it any real thought, she's kissing him.

The surprise on his face is worth it.

"Thought I'd try that for real," she says with a little smile, just before they part ways.

Three days later, she's back in Paris.

Occasionally, she is tempted to think the whole thing was a dream, but then she checks her bank account balance again and she knows it wasn't. The hollowed-out bishop is like a talisman in her pocket.

\-----------

Ariadne sees Miles on his first day back. He's always in the same place - a fixture in the lecture hall, whether it's full of students, or, like today, empty and echoing. She announces herself by dropping her satchel on the floor and sitting on the edge of a table. 

He looks up at her, and for a moment, she's almost overcome with how mundane and familiar the scene is. He looks exactly the same as he did the day he introduced her to Cobb.

"How's Cobb doing?" she asks, because it's the natural thing to ask. 

Miles pulls off his spectacles and leans back a little in his chair. "He's at peace, for now." He's studying her, looking through her the way he always does, the way he's always been able to do in the year or more that she's known him. "How are you settling back in?"

And, as always, she cannot lie, not to him. "Not very well." She looks down, picks at a loose thread on her scarf, and Miles continues to watch her.

"Why are you here?" he suddenly asks. She had to know this was coming. He never judges, but always expects her to explain herself. 

"Where else was I supposed to go?"

He shakes his head, very slightly. "If you're looking for me to tell you that, you've got the wrong man. Where you go, is up to you." 

She looks up at him, frowning. "Do you ever get used to it?"

"Get used to what?"

"Being stuck in reality."

"No," he says, looking sad. 

"Why did you do it?" 

"It wasn't my place to deny you the choice. It's always your choice, Ariadne. You have the talent, use it as you see fit."

\-----------

Six weeks after the Fischer job, a headline in a newspaper reads, 'Fischer to dissolve father's empire', and that night, Ariadne has her first regular dream since before meeting Cobb.

She's always strenuously avoided direct associations with her mythological namesake, particularly after her mother spent most of her childhood regaling her with the story of Theseus, and the labyrinth and the minotaur and the thread that brought him back out again. 

As a small child, she was constantly dreaming about impenetrable labyrinths, but she thought she'd left them long behind until, at age 23, after sharing a dream world with others, after doing the impossible, they begin again.

She's not frightened, not anymore. She explores the maze, runs her hands over the walls, and always, she's aware of a lifeline, something dimly felt in a pocket. She never touches it, but she knows it's there.

She fills a sketchbook with mazes, each more intricate than the last. She begins with the game Cobb taught her - draw a maze in two minutes that can be completed in one. The pages fill, and she is no less adrift, no less directionless.

\-----------

Ariadne now carries within her a power, a knowledge that she can create cities, entire worlds. She has the capability, but now, in this world, the _real_ world, aside from that bank account and that hollowed-out bishop, everything is normal.

She is a student in Paris, and she walks the same streets to class every day, and she does not once break the laws of physics.

\------------

If pressed, she might admit to feeling like she's waiting for something. Holding her breath.

It isn't until three months have passed, and Arthur reappears in her life, that she understands for _what_.

He's just there, one day. Waiting on the street outside her apartment building. His jacket is off, dangling over one shoulder as he glances at his watch. 

"My landlady doesn't like loiterers," she says by way of greeting.

"Nice to see you again, too," he replies, the barest hint of humor in his look. "I was in the neighborhood. Can I buy you a drink?"

They sit in a bistro and share a plate of cheese and a bottle of fruity red wine. They talk about Cobb (Arthur has been in touch, apparently). And then they talk about Amsterdam (Arthur had been there a couple weeks ago by way of Dubai and Cairo and Ariadne was there the summer before last so they compare notes). And then they talk about her school work, projects, plans and models she's building (all of which sounds boring even to her own ears now).

They do not talk about the Fischer job. There is nothing to say about it.

When the wine and cheese are gone, Ariadne says, "Walk me home."

So he does.

\-----------

Neither of them planned it like this, of course, but it has a feeling of inevitability to it, anyway. He looks around the small studio flat and she dumps her satchel on a chair, and then she turns and Arthur is a breath away, his fingers toying with a lock of her hair.

The first time they kissed, it was in a dream. The second time, it was for real, but an impulsive act, short and chaste and by way of saying 'good-bye'.

Now, they kiss like they have all the time in the world. They kiss, and her skin aches.

Arthur is good with details. Somehow, he knows that a thumb pressed to the small of her back will make her arch into him with a moan, and his mouth at the hollow of her throat will make her shiver on a sigh. She runs her fingers through his hair, on purpose to mess it up a bit. Some of it falls into his eyes, but he doesn't even seem to notice as he picks her up, carries her to the bed. 

His thin, wiry frame is stronger than it looks. But she knew that already.

Ariadne isn't sure how long they spend, learning each other's bodies. It hardly matters, anyway, not when she's examining the skin of his back; not when his fingers trail over the inside of her thigh; not when she hooks a leg over his hip; and certainly not when he licks a soft trail over the curve of her breast.

He's inside her, and she changes the angle of her hips slightly. He sucks in a breath and mutters a curse into her hair - possibly the first time she's ever heard Arthur curse, and she feels like she might've just won a prize. 

Her arm reaches out, comes into contact with something, and her hand closes around the small object as they move together. She closes her eyes and, as she comes, she grips the hollowed-out bishop hard enough to leave red marks on her palm.

\------------

When she wakes, the sun is streaming through the windows of her flat, she's alone in the bed, and she can hear the shower running in her tiny bathroom.

She puts on Arthur's shirt, because it's the closest article of clothing, and because it smells like him, and because it's about three times too big for her and she has to roll the sleeves up. Then she makes coffee.

When he gets out of the shower, wearing nothing but a towel, Ariadne takes a moment to appreciate his lean torso (he's stronger than he looks, but she knew that). He admires the way his shirt brushes the skin of her thighs (she made a little keening noise at the feeling of his fingers on the inside of her thigh, the skin there so soft).

This is the first time she's not feeling awkward and embarrassed the morning after. It feels like they've done this a million times before, or maybe that they'll be doing this a million times more. 

"You have a job," she says suddenly, breaking the silence. 

Arthur raises his eyebrows. "Can I at least put some pants on before we talk shop?"

"Fine." She drinks her coffee and watches him dress, meticulous in this as in everything else. He produces a clean shirt from somewhere (he plans for every contingency, apparently), and she even lets him brush his hair back before speaking again.

"So. You have a job."

He gets himself a cup of coffee, removes her satchel from the chair she'd tossed it on last night and sits down.

"Maybe," he finally says.

"What does that mean?"

"It means, maybe."

"Arthur."

"It depends."

"On what?"

"On you."

Ariadne worries her bottom lip between her teeth. "You need an architect."

He might look vaguely amused. "I find myself in need of a talented architect, yes."

"And you want to ask me to do it."

"I need an architect. I want you."

She drums her fingers along the side of her coffee cup, and thinks.

She thinks about mazes. Cobb. Mal. Miles. Limbo. Choices. The people in Yusuf's basement. Her scholarship. Money. Impossible buildings. Paradoxes. 

Arthur is watching her. She knows he'll wait as long as it takes for her to make a decision. It's her choice. Her choice to make. She finds the bishop, the one she hollowed out herself. Grips it in her hand.

"I'm in. Tell me everything."


End file.
